


Stitching at Your Circuit Boards

by salvadore



Series: Your Arms are a Harbor [1]
Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvadore/pseuds/salvadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eduardo has been (mostly) over this for years. He's weary of everything between him and Mark, but the way Mark asks, "You said if there's, if there's ever anything wrong I could tell you, that you're the guy that wants to help. Is that still. Are you?" makes all of that unimportant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitching at Your Circuit Boards

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt on the mark_eduardo prompt fest @LJ

It's already dark outside when the courtesy phone starts ringing on the bedside table. It is still early evening, but Eduardo is down to an undershirt and his slacks because he had been planning on going to bed early. Between the jet lag from returning to New York from a business trip to Singapore and the jet lag of flying from East coast to West coast two days after for _another_ business trip; Eduardo just wants to curl himself around the large hotel pillows. He wants to sleep until his limbs no longer protest to being used and his eyes don't ache.

But the courtesy phone starts to ring on the bedside table.

He pauses, toothbrush halfway to his mouth, toothpaste sliding over his bottom lip as he stares at the phone suspiciously. It cuts out on the fifth ring, and Eduardo jerkily returns his toothbrush back to his mouth. Slowly he pivots and pads back into the bathroom. Just as his shoulders are starting to lower from their tensed up state; the courtesy phone starts up again.

Eduardo spits into the sink with venom. He quickly rinses the toothpaste from his mouth and then aggressively wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and his aching eyes that he wanted to sooth with a wet wash cloth are ignored in favor of spinning on his heels. Eduardo marches across the small space of bathroom door to night table.

When he answers the phone, Eduardo is the definition of polite.

“I'm sorry for interrupting, sir,” the young man from the front desk says in response to Eduardo's greeting. He was the same young man that, when Eduardo checked in, Eduardo had mentioned not wanting to be disturbed to. Now, the young man sounds nervous, and Eduardo doesn't need three guesses to figure out who has been trying to get Eduardo's attention. Eduardo's eyes ache all the more.

He is too tired for this. For tonight, or forever. It has been _years_ and Eduardo has all of this on his mind when he apologizes to the young man.

“I understand,” Eduardo says softly, soothing the man's worries. “I know it's not your fault. But I would appreciate it if you would send him on his way.”

“He's adamant,” the young man starts to interject.

“I'm sure he is, but send him away. Please.”

The please is tacked on for the sake of politeness, though civility is the furthest thing from Eduardo's tone.

“Sir -”

The line picks up a muted conversation as the young man is interrupted and the phone is transferred to new hands.

“Wardo,” Mark, and Eduardo knew it would be Mark, breathes down the line. The way the nickname sounds on Mark's lips is almost as if Mark is relieved to be saying it. "You said if there's, if there's ever anything wrong I could tell you, that you're the guy that wants to help. Is that still. Are you. Can I, I have to tell someone."

  


\--

  
As gently as he can manage Eduardo tells Mark to give the phone back to the clerk. He doesn't bother dissecting why he tells the young man at the front desk to send Mark up to his room. The answer is simultaneously simple and complicated.

 _Eduardo is terrified._ That is the simple explanation. What makes it complicated are all of the emotions wrapped up in the terror, such as fear and sadness and the familiar sensation of _needing_ to take care of Mark, but there is also anger. It's low burning, but still a rage that is waiting to be unleashed. That portion of Eduardo wants to interrogate Mark on why this couldn't be anyone else's problem.

Eduardo steps barefoot outside of his hotel room and moves slowly toward where the elevators are. He waits with his arms crossed over his chest and watching the lights above the elevator doors as they count their progress from floor to floor. As the elevator slowly rises up Eduardo loosens all of his muscles, shaking out the tension in his back before squaring his shoulders once more in anticipation, then the light stops on the number indicating his floor. He drops his hands to his sides and steps forward. Somewhere in the back of his mind Eduardo is thinking he will have to catch Mark, but it's more of a hope than an expectation.

When the doors slide open with the softest sound of a bell, Mark becomes visible. He looks exactly the same with his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. His back is oh-so-straight and his chin is tipped up as he stares straight at Eduardo.

When Mark steps forward, though, it is as if the Mark that Eduardo knew falls to the floor, shed like a second skin or a disguise. This Mark has knees that shake and nearly buckle. One of Mark's hands flings itself from the pocket of his hoodie to catch hold of the wall, knuckles going white as it supports the whole of his body mass. In two steps, Eduardo is in front of Mark and he is catching Mark.

Mark's hands are shaking and they only seem to steady when they are curled in Eduardo's undershirt, holding himself to Eduardo's body. His proximity to Eduardo's body, with his breath on Eduardo's collar bones, is something that Eduardo has no idea how to handle. And Eduardo's hands falter where they are resting below Mark's elbows; he tries to form the sounds to say Mark's name but no sound comes out. Because this close, Eduardo can see bruises and lines on Mark's face that weren't there the last time Eduardo saw Mark or saw a photograph of Mark. These aren't the signs of exhaustion because of being hacked or an update being pushed ahead. They are far worse than Eduardo has ever seen on Mark, even when he was nearly killing himself to keep up with thefacebook's traffic. It is a whole other manifestation of sleeplessness.

“Wardo,” Mark murmurs. His lips are so close to Eduardo's skin that Eduardo can feel the breath escaping and the soft motions of the lips brushing his skin. He holds back a shudder as he pulls Mark fully to his feet and helps him down the hall to Eduardo's room.

Once they are behind the hotel room door Eduardo finds his arms are absent of Mark's weight. And Mark is several feet from him in the short amount of time it took for the door to close. He is pacing, lips moving in a rapid manner, but there isn't a sound. Or at least Eduardo doesn't hear anything. He's watching the tremors in Mark's hands and then as Mark's face pulls tight and he tries to shake-out his hands; Mark arms move in jerking fashions and the lines over his brow just seem to get deeper when his hands continue to shake after the rest of his body has gone still.

And almost as if a bubble pops in Eduardo's ears, all of the sound comes back. A sound not unlike a growl tears it's way out of Mark's body to rip apart the air between them in the room. Mark's hands are in his hair, pulling at it as he bends himself in two. He looks like he is diving head first for the floor and Eduardo, from several feet away, can hear Mark gulping for breath even as it wheezes rapidly back out of him. Eduardo starts forward and his feet feel like lead. Everything is happening so fast but he feels as if he is moving unusually slow while Mark curls in on himself, head bowed down to the hotel carpet even as his knees crash down upon the floor. Even the curve of Mark's spine looks as if it is being taken apart by small earthquakes moving outward from the center of Mark's body to break his body apart in increments.

The room is filled with the sound of Mark choking on air.

And Eduardo doesn't know what to do.

After he makes it the short amount of distance between the door and where Mark has been bowled over by nothing, Eduardo does the one thing he has denied himself for the last handful of painful and bitter years. He reaches for Mark. With his fingers stretched out first and with the intent to lay his palm flat on Mark's wracked spine, Eduardo reaches for Mark. And Mark flinches out from under him, a pained sound breaking Mark visibly, as well as an unseen part of Eduardo, as Mark tenses.

“Don't,” Mark spits. It's angry and with such force. Eduardo throws himself back toward the door, taking half the time to make the return trip. Eduardo leans his body against the door, applies all of his energy in pressing his shoulders into the wood while he watches Mark curl tighter toward the carpet, head hardly visible in the cage of his arms.

The sleeves of Mark's hoodie have slid past Mark's elbows and Eduardo's eyes are drawn to Mark's arms. They are pale like the rest of Mark's body, like one would expect from a man who rarely leaves the house without a hoodie hiding his body. But his arms are so thin, his wrists look so fragile. Rationally Eduardo knows that Mark's arms are probably no thinner than they were in college. He knows that there is an amount of muscle to them from years of fencing and lugging around his own computer gear. But Eduardo can see the tendons of Mark's forearms tense and protruding away from the rest of the mass of Mark's wrists. And they look so goddamn fragile that it hurts.

“Mark,” and Eduardo's voice cracks when he speaks. “What's wrong? You need to tell me what's wrong.”

Mark's kowtowed body is rocking back and forth against the carpet while he wheezes and Eduardo wants to walk forward and cover his friend (and god they aren't even _that_ anymore but it doesn't stop him for _wanting_ way too much) and hide him. Maybe it would stop the shaking that makes Mark look so unbelievably wrecked.

But he holds himself against the door and waits.

Eduardo imagines he hears Mark murmuring something frantically among his broken breathing to the carpet. At first he thinks that it is Mark cursing, that Mark is threatening the force exerting itself on his body. But he hopes, and then hates himself for it, for a second that it is Mark apologizing even though he doesn't know what Mark is speaking to.

It's only when he thinks that Mark is begging as Mark's thin fingers claw at his own scalp that Eduardo shoves himself bodily from the door.

“Mark?!”

“ _Don't!_ ” Mark yells. And Eduardo stumbles in his steps as he watches Mark move. Slow fast slow fast - Mark's hands come off of his head to shove him onto his numb feet and unstable knees. Slow; Mark's clearly exhausted body stumbles and sends him falling backward into the arms of gravity. Fast; he takes two steps and rights himself. Slow; Mark catches himself against the far wall with one hand that collapses nearly immediately so that Mark falls heavily against the wall and slowly slides down it's surface until he is seated on the ground again.

And Eduardo towers for a moment, unintentionally, before he notices the way Mark tenses up. Then he drops down so he is crouching and is eye to eye with Mark.

“Mark -”

Mark's eye which were fogging with what Eduardo won't believe were tears clench so suddenly. His lashes look so soft but the rest of Mark's face is lined with creases as he clenches everything so tight.

And then words thunder out of him.

“It won't fucking stop! My hands won't stop fucking shaking!”

“Did you take something, could someone have given you something? Mark, please look at me!”

“It's been days! They won't fucking stop! It's feels like they have and then. And the fucking headaches!” Mark cuts himself off with a pain yell. He bows his head and slams his palms against his temples over and over, and Eduardo can't stop him. The worst is that Mark isn't wrong. Because the shaking doesn't die down. Eduardo slides back to the door and curls his arms around his legs, making himself as small as possible as he watches in horror as Mark slams his hands against his head, rocking back and forth, and making agonized sounds. .

It is ages before Mark drops his hands to the floor and quiets down. His breathing is still too fast and when he speaks it is at a whisper.

“I can't get it to stop, Wardo.”

His eyelids peel open and Eduardo has to hold back his own sob as tears of frustration make Mark's eyes brighter and wet. His eyes are red rimmed but not a single tear falls down Mark's skin. Instead, Mark turns his gaze to the wall just past Eduardo's ear and stares without blinking Mark visibly attempts to swallow down what Eduardo can only describe as anguish. And then Mark nearly chokes on it; Adam's apple bobbing rapidly as he tries to bottle and bury everything while it all fights back.

  


\--

  
When Mark drops his head down into his knees and just sits breathing heavily into the fabric of his pants, Eduardo sneaks out of the room. He closes the door quietly so as not to draw Mark's attention. Then he slides to the left of the door, out of sight from the peep hole, just in case, and sinks into it. Eduardo presses the back of his hand to his mouth and bites down on the skin to keep from sobbing _for_ Mark.

  


\--

  
When Eduardo reenters the hotel room he has wiped his eyes dry and rolled his shoulders so he doesn't look tense when he approaches Mark. He takes slow steps toward Mark after he closes the door; Eduardo tries to make just enough noise so as not to startle Mark, and then he kneels at Mark's feet.

“Mark, look at me please,” Eduardo says softly. He keeps his hands on his knees and waits patiently. Watching studiously when Mark tenses and seems to curl deeper in on himself; hands fisted in his sleeves as he pulls his knees in so close to his chest that Mark has to turn his head down and rest his forehead on his kneecaps as he tucks his chin to his chest. Mark's hair is all that Eduardo can see of Mark's head and it looks soft and longer than the last time Eduardo saw Mark.

Not that Eduardo can remember the last time he _saw_ Mark. It was probably that picture on the cover of TIME, not in person. And Eduardo swallows down his own feelings on that matter. He reaches out cautiously and brushes his fingers over Mark's hair, so as not to tug or hurt Mark. And Mark. Mark makes a soft sound that at any other time, in a louder room, Eduardo would write off as his imagination. But it isn't so, when Mark's head starts to jerk up, eyes narrowed and looking at Eduardo in a way that has seemed dangerous in the past but now just looks so sad, Eduardo lets his hand slide smoothly from the top of Mark's head. For a moment, Eduardo cups Mark's cheek, running his thumb soothingly against the skin over Mark's cheek bone.

Then Eduardo says, “Sorry,” and drops his hand back to his side.

And Mark's eyes skitter away.

“Mark. Look at me.”

When Mark shifts his gaze away from the spot on the wall just behind Eduardo's ear, Eduardo smiles gently. He keeps it small, hoping it looks reassuring as opposed to pitying, but Mark could read miles into his face at the best of times or nothing at the worst and Eduardo doesn't have a hope in the world of anticipating Mark's next move. So he murmurs, “Hey,” and waits for Mark to react.

When he gets the slightest of nods, Eduardo asks, “Why don't you lay down for a bit?”

He doesn't ask when the last time Mark slept was, because he's afraid to find out.

It's slow going and like torture trying to get Mark into bed. Eduardo keeps wanting to reach out and help Mark; help him stand up, help Mark out of his hoodie, but every time he starts to reach Mark moves further away. So Eduardo sets to pulling the duvet down the bed and tossing the unnecessary throw pillows to the floor while Mark shakes his way through stripping to his t-shirt and boxer-shorts.

Then Mark climbs onto the bed, slipping onto his hip as soon as he has all of his limbs on the mattress. Eduardo watches with a dry throat as Mark slowly shuffles to the center of the bed and then curls into a ball, facing away from Eduardo. He looks so thin and like a gust of wind could make him shiver. Eduardo reaches out for the sheet and then falters. He looks at the bed and calculates the best choice and then returns his hands to the sheets which he pulls up to drape over Mark's bony shoulder. The lumps that are Mark's legs shift, sliding up so that his body is curled further in on himself. One of Mark's hands peeks out from under the sheet and pulls it just a little higher.

Neither of them mentions the fact that Eduardo is audibly shucking his pants.

Eduardo, in his boxer briefs and undershirt, slides across the bed until he is within three inches of Mark and stops. It's too familiar to his dreams in college for Eduardo to be perfectly okay with the situation. But the way that Mark looks, frail and pale and exhausted in his bed, makes it hard for Eduardo to talk himself out of helping Mark. So Eduardo curls in an imitation of spooning Mark without actually touching Mark, and then pulls the duvet over both of them. The barrier of the sheets seems to help because as the minutes pass, Mark seems to slowly relax, even though he doesn't start to fall asleep.

“Mark,” Eduardo murmurs. He slides the arm he is lying on up so it is out from under him and resting on the pillows above Mark's head. He shuffles closer so he can smell the scent of Mark's shampoo and murmurs his name again. Mark's skin pimples and bumps with a shiver and the  
emergence of goosebumps.

The blankets shift and Mark's voice comes out soft when he asks, “Yeah?”

“You need to sleep.”

Eduardo desperately wants to run his fingers through Mark's hair. He wants to kiss the skin at the back of Mark's neck, just out of reach of the longest curls on Mark's head. He wants to warm Mark's skin with his breath and his lips, but Eduardo holds himself still. He watches Mark tense and relax, the hand on the top of the sheets curling and clinging so tight to the blankets.

“Did I ever tell you about what it was like growing up in Brazil?” Eduardo asks even though he knows the answer. He did, once. He and Mark were drunk and hadn't been able to make it to the couch in the Kirkland, so they had sprawled out on the wooden floor between the door and the couch. And Eduardo had drunkenly told Mark about his childhood without a single thought as to whether or not Mark would care. Eduardo had just assumed that Mark did.

“Tell me anyway,” Mark whispers, and with so many words escaping Mark's lips Eduardo can hear how hoarse Mark is.

Eduardo starts speaking; he tells his stories in Portuguese without meaning to but it seems to help. Mark relaxes, ribs rising and falling as his breathing evens out in pace. Eduardo watches, wanting to run his fingers along the contours, to play them like an instrument and earn a satisfied smile from Mark. Eduardo holds himself still and vigil until Mark is asleep, and then Eduardo drifts off beside him.

  


\--

  
Eduardo wakes up before Mark. It's early, before six am if the red neon numbers on the courtesy alarm clock are correct. But it is only early on the west coast, Eduardo rationalizes so he doesn't feel terrible about calling Chris as he slips out of the bed.

In just his briefs and with his key card grabbed from the table beside the door, Eduardo slips out of the hotel room and into the hall. He leans his back against the wall beside the door and slowly slides down to the floor as the phone rings in his ear. The phone rings three times before Chris picks up with, “Hello, Chris Hughes speaking.”

“It's Eduardo.”

He drops full to the floor and stretches his legs out in front of him, pointing his toes.

“Oh, hey. I didn't check caller ID first.”

Eduardo can hear the click-clack of keys being pressed as Chris works at his computer, presumably, with half of his attention being given to Eduardo. But only for a moment before Chris finishes whatever he was working on and he gives all of his attention to Eduardo and asks, somewhat tiredly, “What's up, Eduardo?”

“When was the last time you talked to Mark?” Eduardo asks as he draws his legs in so he can warp an arm around them.

“That depends. We haven't Skyped since last month, but usually we exchange emails about once a week. Sometimes every other week, you know, when one of us is busy.”

Eduardo chooses his words carefully. “If there was something wrong with Mark, would you know?”

Chris is silent for a long moment on the other end of the line. Eduardo drops his head back against the wall, but not hard enough to make a sound. Instead of banging his head against the wall the way he really wants to, Eduardo set his head back and combs the fingers of his free hand through his hair.

“Wardo, what's this about?”

Eduardo sighs and clenches his eyes tight.

“Mark's here, in my bed.” He gives an abrupt shake of his head even though Chris can't see it and then corrects himself, “In my _hotel room_. I'm in California.”

“And what? Mark just showed up?”

“Yeah.” Eduardo lifts his head up a small distance and then flops forward over his bent knees. “Chris, do you have any idea – There isn't anything wrong with. . . anyone?”

The words drop lamely from Eduardo's lips and as they meet they air he expels mores as he collapses further over his knees. Eduardo listens to the rustling of paper from Chris' end of the line as he breathes smoothly in and out. The last thing Eduardo wants to do is freak out now and have Mark find him like that, out here, possibly blubbering to Chris. (And to think, fourteen hours earlier he had been stepping out of an airport to catch a cab.) So, Eduardo presses his cellphone to his thigh and draws in a deep, shaky breath. He centers himself by staring at the wall straight in front of him for a long moment.

“Mark didn't say anything about being stressed out?” Eduardo asks after he puts the phone back to his ear.

“No. Eduardo, what's going on?”

Eduardo runs the back of his free hand across his eyes and speaks through clenched teeth to respond, “He showed up at my hotel and he was really distressed. I _wish_ I knew more.”

Eduardo stares at the wall and listens to Chris sit with him in silence.

“Do you think Dustin might know anything?” Eduardo asks in a whisper. There isn't a single sound coming from the neighboring rooms and it's nice, and yet, it is isolating. It leaves Eduardo alone to face what is going on in Mark's head and he didn't prove to be a perfect translator the first time around. He wants to drag his hands through his hair until it stands tall, he wants to chew on his thumbnail, and he kind of wants to runaway. He really wants to draw up the years old rage and turn these questions on Mark, but nothing out weighs the part of him that is desperate to check on Mark and he just _can't._

“I don't know. Probably. He only just turned in his two weeks notice, so he still sees Mark on a day to day basis.”

“Thanks Chris,” Eduardo says, without feeling the words leaving his lips. He closes his phone as the last syllable escapes his lips without bothering to explain the idea forming in his head. He'll probably get hell for it later, but right now Eduardo gathers himself before he stands and pivots. He heads into the hotel room quietly, nearly tripping over himself to do so, but it isn't necessary.

Mark is sitting up in the bed, and when the door slides open Mark turns his head just enough to show that he heard the sound. He looks Eduardo up and down slowly, and despite the curling hot feeling in Eduardo's stomach that Mark's lingering looks cause, Eduardo just smiles gently at Mark. He approaches the bed slowly, the smile dropping and returning with every step he takes. His fingers itch to reach out for Mark, especially now that he (thinks) he knows, but he just curls them in the fabric of the sheets as he perches a fair distance from Mark.

Mark's cheeks are pink even though he didn't cry and his eyes, when they stay on Eduardo's for seconds at a time, are weary themselves. There are creases on Mark's cheeks from the sheets. His hair is a mess of pulled straight curls and and limp strands drooping down toward Mark's eyebrows. When Eduardo looks at Mark's lips he has to force himself to look away as quickly, telling himself not to linger on how red and bruised they look from being bitten raw. Eduardo drags his nails against the sheets and stares at Mark's left ear to center himself. When he looks back Mark has looked away, his chin tucked against his chest.

“Hey,” Eduardo starts to say, earnest without meaning to be. He was trying for reassuring, but it still nearly pulls a smile from Mark's lips. The mistake he makes is reaching for Mark's hand as he adds, “You said you needed to tell someone -”

“Thank you, Eduardo,” Mark says hastily. His hand is out from under Eduardo's in a moment and the blankets are being whipped off of him. “You didn't have to. So thank you.”

Eduardo grabs Mark's wrist, slowing him down and keeping Mark from jumping out of the bed. Blue eyes drop to focus on the design on the duvet even as his lips twist in a frown that has never meant good news. Eduardo slides his hand into Mark's and doesn't think about it; lacing his fingers with Mark's, Eduardo stares at their hands together until Mark stops staring at the bed with such concentration that someone might think he was trying to create an escape route with his mind. Mark finally looks up at Eduardo and Eduardo is just happy to see all of Mark's face so he doesn't make any remarks about Mark's frown.

“Only you would rather thank someone than admit that something is wrong.”

Mark's frown twists into something Eduardo has never seen before Mark's face goes completely blank.

“I know about Dustin leaving,” Eduardo presses gently as he wishes he can press himself to Mark's side.

“I'm not broken, Wardo,” Mark murmurs, letting the nickname accidentally slip out, if the sudden pursing of his lips is anything to read into. Mark looks away again, but his hand slackens in Eduardo's instead of tugging to be free. His thumb runs across Eduardo's knuckles in a way that makes Eduardo swallow hard and fight back the warmth spreading out from his core. It's the wrong time, especially when something is wrong with Mark, but even more because this is the first time he has spoken with Mark about more than the state of finance and Facebook. But he can't help it, it feels like he is getting something back, like the college kid who was hopelessly in an undefined want for his best friend is getting a second chance.

“I'm the one who wants to help, Mark.”

“Everyone is leaving,” Mark says. He tenses minutely at having admitted anything, and if Eduardo weren't watching carefully he would have missed the way Mark glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“Just because Dustin is leaving Facebook doesn't mean he is leaving you.”

Something like a shudder runs through Mark. Eduardo holds himself still watching as Mark swallows twice and then looks away, his jaw tense and his eyes clenching shut.

“Mark, Dustin is your friend, he -”

“Why wouldn't he -,” Mark cuts himself off and swallows harder, head bobbing with effort of fighting his dry throat, and Eduardo goes a bit cold watching Mark swallow everything down again. He doesn't want, in that moment, to hear what Mark thinks he deserves; Eduardo doesn't want to hear Mark admit to something self-deprecating and wholly untrue. Leaning forward with his free hand rising slowly so as not to surprise Mark, Eduardo cups Mark's cheek. He runs his thumb over the ridge of the cheek bone and watches Mark's eyelashes flutter.

“Mark, you aren't going to lose Dustin.”

“Don't be stupid, people grow apart all of the time.”

Eduardo would be insulted if Mark's voice didn't sound so weak and strained. He doesn't snap and he doesn't stop gently touching Mark's skin, running his fingers across Mark's wrists when Mark eventually acquiesces, running his thumb over the lines of the too-blue vein there and his thumb under the line of Mark's ear lobe. With his eyes closed, Mark sits and let's Eduardo touch the side of his neck with only the slightest of flinches. And Eduardo patiently waits for Mark to reopen his eyes with a still line to his lips.

When they open, Eduardo lets a small smile slip through. Taking all of the cheer from moments before and pulling it to the surface, hoping it makes his smile look reassuring as he says, “You don't have to worry about Dustin, or about Chris. But if you want to fall apart, you can. I'm here. I'm not leaving you.”

Mark stares at him for a long moment before some thing seems to leak out, like a balloon losing air. Mark's whole body wilts, shoulders falling loose as he tips forward toward Eduardo's chest. The hair at the crown of Mark's head brushes Eduardo's collarbones as he sinks in on himself. With one of Eduardo's hands between his shoulder blades.  
[ ****](http://salvadore-hart.livejournal.com/33022.html)


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